Fine, I suppose that's an oversimplification.
Either way, this isn't another post about the complete and utter failure that was our relationship, this is about a woman whom I never would have known were it not for K, and whom I am deeply saddened this world is losing.
Ikoola (not her given name) is a woman I was initially warned to fear. I was convinced she wouldn't (and for awhile after we met, that she didn't) like me. Her nephew lived in her home for about a year, and because I was dating him, she saw more of me than she probably ever wanted to, and she's a saint for only losing her cool with the arrangement once or twice.
When does your soul really leave your body? Can the argument be made that Koola's soul has moved on already, that it's just habit or instinct that's fueling the fight she's still giving?
Update:
Koola passed away a little after 6 this morning.
She and I haven't been too close for the past couple of years. When K and I broke up, not only was most of the family upset with me for inflicting so much pain on one of their own, but I needed to distance myself from them as a gesture to A that I was serious about our relationship. Given that Koola was diagnosed shortly before K and I broke up, in retrospect I should have kept in closer contact.
I didn't know this until Friday night, the last time I saw Koola, but she would tell her best friend about how much of an asshole K was to me. She would say to me "You know, we're stuck with him. You have a choice." Although I'd always been outspoken, independent, and confident, my relationship with K dissolved a lot of that for a long time, but Koola made me want to stand up for myself, because I knew if she were in my position, no way in hell would she tolerate half the shit he pulled. Eventually, I put my foot down. When she was upset with me for hurting him, her best friend told her: "You know, I know he's family and all, and that he's hurting. I get that. But you always said how much of an asshole he was to her. He's family, but you're a woman first. You're a woman first."
In addition to the breakup turmoil, I was terrified of Koola. She was a fiery Jamaican woman who knew precisely what to say to make you feel exactly how she wanted you to feel. K and I had a messy, ugly, drawn-out separation, and Koola was involved for a part of it. I felt if I picked up the phone to call too soon, I'd get a tongue-lashing, or worse, the steely cold monosyllabic conversation she could hand to people who had fallen out of her favor. This is a woman who, when times were good, would leave a singing happy birthday message on my voicemail, and who giggled and laughed the loudest at my rendition of the Chicken Noodle Soup dance- the result of a bet that the losing team of a particularly heated round of "Catchphrase" had to shake and wiggle out those ridiculous moves.
Kools was fiercely loyal to those she cared about; her animus was a lion and they occupied many inches of space in her life. She had a lion rug on the floor of her apartment, lion statues in her living room, lion figurines in her china cabinet. Not many people could pull off having such a powerful and intimidating symbol but if you knew Koola you knew it fit to a T.
When I failed my first driving test, Koola talked me through my embarrassment, bought me a bottle of juice, and then promptly released me onto Pennsylvania Blvd. near Starrett City in Brooklyn around lunchtime- one of the busiest times of day- to help me build skills and confidence. For the first time I glimpsed what it must have been like to grow up with her, as K and his siblings had. She balanced cutting criticism with urgent instruction, gave crystal-clear directions, and dished out praise
sparingly. She knew how to make you laugh, though, and that made all the difference.
She was the best friend people should aspire to be. Flawed, yes. She could be harsh and unsympathetic, but damned if it didn't make you stronger. When her best friend had 6 children and the father was still alive and in and out of the picture, she moved into their house to help her raise the kids. She was heavy-handed and probably not always fair, but she did the best she could to help keep food on the table and make sure the kids didn't feel the absence of a father as much as they might have. She didn't have biological children, but the way she loved her kids- and their kids, and the people who loved her kids- you couldn't tell the difference.
She would often take K's daughter, Little K, with her to birthday parties for her coworkers' children. One night when K and I picked them up from one in Bed Stuy, she told the story of an older girl who'd decided to pick on Little K. Now, Little K isn't just a name- the girl was tiny. Her father and Koola teased her for being "wingee"- a Bajan term for skinny- and once she snootily corrected me when I misquoted her weight at 36 lbs. She wiggled her neck, rolled her eyes, and put her hand condescendingly on her hip: "Excuse me. It's 36 and a half."
No no, pardon me Little K.
Anyway, they climbed into the car following the birthday party and Koola told the story. Apparently upon arrival each child was given a lei. Several of the little girls had wrapped theirs around their wrists as though they were purses, and Little K did the same. This older girl, around 10, and much bigger than Little K, for no discernible reason, tore Little K's from her wrist. Koola observed this from one of the tables with the adults and hung back to see how Little K would react and how the situation would play out. The older girl left Little K for awhile and the latter resumed playing, until the next time Koola looked up and the older girl had her index finger pointed too close to Little K's face and she jabbed it back and forth, emphasizing whatever point she thought she needed to make. Little K's lip quivered, she was near tears. Koola swooped in, as she was wont to do, and grabbed the older girl's finger, mid-jab.
"What did she do to you that you're in her face like that?" she asked in her terse way.
"Are you her mother?" the older girl had the gall to respond.
"What did she do to you?"
"Are you her mother?" the girl asked again, defiantly.
"That doesn't matter. She didn't do anything to you. I saw. I sat over there and watched everything."
The older girl starts to stammer. Koola still has a grip on her wrist. "I'm going to go tell my mother..."
Koola interrupts her. "If I see you so much as look in this girl's direction, much less touch any part of her, Ima pluck you in ya forehead. Go tell your mother." Koola let the girl go and she left Little K alone for the remainder of the evening.
The challenge was a smaller-scaled version of the battles she'd gotten into while she was younger, but she made it clear no one was to harm any of her kin in any way.
The woman was known in every circle for always being "right." Her nails were right, her toes were right, her dreads were always right. When she would twist them, or have them curled up for a certain style, she'd need help to cut out the black rubber bands holding the chunks of hair together. Koola had had her dreads for something like 25 years. She cut them once, so when free they reached just below her waist, and there was a lot of hair. When K and I had been together awhile, and when she'd seen me in her house enough to last a lifetime, she'd begun asking me to help her take those rubber bands out. As odd as it is, those were some of my favorite times- being able to help her out, and being a part of the classic "girl" experience: helping another with her hair. Additionally, Koola was very picky about who she let touch her hair- it was immaculately taken care of- and I was almost in awe as a little girl would be that she would ask me to assist her.
The last night I was ever in K's apartment I went to pick up a suitcase and a pair of shoes I'd left there. I took one last look around his room to make sure I'd left nothing behind and we walked downstairs. He had told me that Koola'd had to cut off her dreads because the chemo was making her lose her hair but I couldn't seem to wrap my head around what that would look like. When we were on the 1st floor, Koola and K's mother were at the dining room table. Kools sported a bright blonde short-coiffed wig that looked like Mary J. Blige, her favorite artist, would own. She also sported an icy glare for me. The wig was so perfect and I was so shocked (and so profoundly sad) that I had to turn away to hide the way my face was screwing up. That was the last time I actually saw her "well." And I regret that to no end now.
I could go on and on, but words are actually failing me. I really hope someday I'm the kind of mother she was: strong, wise, beautiful, intelligent, high-maintenance and expecting of great things from those she loved. Honest. Ambitious. She is who I want to be when I grow up.
It's true: she's no longer in pain. She's in a better place. And I'm happy she no longer has to fight, and she no longer has to be alone. As comforting as those thoughts are, I still wish I knew she was kissing her teeth and cutting her eyes in Brooklyn.
May you rest in peace, Ikoola.
